Yunasa
by RedRosePretender
Summary: The Tower had a Plan B when Jarod escaped, but seven years after being stolen from her family, Elizabeth finds herself at a turning point. Can a new friend show her a way out of the Centre's grasp? Chapter Two: What Centre facility wouldn't be complete without airvents and personnel issues?
1. Prologue

**Prologue.**

* * *

NuGenesis Family Group

_Building the Future Together_

PSYCHOLOGICAL REPORT

PREPARED BY: Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences Department

NuGenesis Family Group, Atlanta, Georgia

PERSONAL INFORMATION:

NAME: Elizabeth

BIRTH DATE: May 22, 1987

DATE OF TESTING: June 13, 1992

AGE AT TESTING: 5 years, 22 days

ASSESSMENT PROCEDURE:

Elizabeth completed the following assessments with Cynthia DeWitt, M.D., Ph.D.:

Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children, Third Edition (WISC-III).

Note: Due to results of the sub-testing reaching the score ceiling, we applied the WISC Extended Norms to obtain an accurate assessment of Elizabeth's cognitive abilities. The Extended Norms were developed to differentiate between gifted children (Full Scale IQ 130-150) and highly gifted children (Full Scale IQ 150 and above).

BACKGROUND INFORMATION:

Elizabeth has been under NuGenesis observation since inception. The records of artificial insemination leading to her birth can be found under record number 12-072463-02. This report is being prepared under Tower Directive 83-04 in preparation for future transport to the Centre.

BEHAVIORAL OBSERVATIONS:

Elizabeth has brown hair, brown eyes, and missing front teeth. Her speech was clear and goal-directed, and she clearly understood all directions. She demonstrated excellent attention, motivation, and concentration throughout the evaluation. She was thoughtful and deliberate in her approaches to problem solving, and highly methodical in her manner. Elizabeth showed no outward signs of frustration and appeared to welcome challenge.

TEST RESULTS:

FULL SCALE IQ: 192, 99.9 Percentile

GENERAL ABILITY INDEX: 208, 99.9 Percentile

Elizabeth demonstrated overall intellectual abilities in the very superior range, with her verbal and spatial abilities equally well developed. She was able to develop mature strategies for problem solving, and to methodically follow the strategy. When compared to age norms, Elizabeth demonstrated very superior abilities in reading, spelling, grammar, mathematical calculation, and problem solving. Elizabeth's academic skills are very well developed. Coupled with a highly demonstrated emotional quotient (see additional records), as well as displayed persistence and hard work, she is highly suited to be a test subject should the Centre move ahead with its planned Project.

RECOMMENDED DESTINATION:

The Centre.

* * *

THE CENTRE

_Interoffice Memo_

DATE: September 29, 1996

TO: Triumvirate Council

CC: The Institute

FROM: The Tower

RE: Pretender Program

Given the concerning circumstances surrounding the recent escape of Jarod, Eddie, and Alex, we have decided to make several programmatic changes to the Pretender Program. Our research has led to the conclusion that a modicum of socialization for future test subjects may result in a more docile and cooperative Pretender. To that extent, we wish to proceed with the first phase of the project. We anticipate transport for the girl to the Institute within the week. Communication between the Project Coordinator and Sydney in the Centre Psychogenic Research Department will be of paramount importance. We strongly believe the implementation of this new program will prevent the unfortunate loss of Centre assets. We await your final approval to proceed.

Mr. Parker

* * *

**A/N. **The Pretender belongs to the immensely talented Steve Mitchell and Craig Van Sickle. I'm just a part of the fanmily who loves playing in their sandbox. Please be nice. Chapter One, in which we fast forward six years, will be up tomorrow. #thepretenderlives


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One.**

* * *

Rain pelted the windows of the Institute for Behavioural Research and Treatment for the third day in a row. The sky beyond was blurred with dark grey clouds and a thick mist swirled in the air, reducing visibility to almost nothing. The wind whipped the trees around the immense building, their branches tapping heavily on the thick glass windows. A flash of lightning directly overhead flickered the power on and off, only to be followed by a crash of thunder that rocked the upward levels of the decibel scale.

The atmosphere inside was not much calmer. The hallway on the third floor of the Institute was filled with screams and cries and voices of panic, creating a human cacophony to rival the raging storm outside. The orderlies and staff went from child to child, calming them with stories or a toy to take their mind away from their fear. In the large room adjoining the office Director of Psychogenic Research, sixteen-year-old Elizabeth let out a deep sigh. A dull ache moved from the base of her skull to the front, just behind the eyes. She rubbed her temples, hoping to stave off a migraine. She stared blankly at the computer monitor blinking in front of her. Determined to finish the assignment, she leaned forward and tried to focus on the work. Frustration knitted her brows as she struggled to find the concentration to finish the problems. She pushed the keyboard back slightly, and with a soft groan, Elizabeth slumped forward and smashed her forehead against the desktop.

"Are you trying to break the desk?" A voice asked dryly from the doorway. Patrick, the Director of Psychogenic Research to whom the office next door belonged, gave his protégé a small smile.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

Patrick crossed the room to the girl and studied the oblong red mark slowly forming on her pale forehead. "The last time I checked, smashing your head against the desk is _not_ going to help you with the simulation."

"But it does makes it more interesting," Elizabeth replied with a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

"Do we need to have a discussion about self-harm?" The Psychiatrist replied with equal sarcasm. After nearly seven years as his charge, Patrick had developed a finely nuanced feel for Elizabeth's moods.

"Of course not." She pulled the keyboard back toward her.

Patrick leaned over her shoulder to peer at the screen and monitor her progress. "Not bad. Just another hour or so and then you will be done."

"Where's everyone else?" The room adjoining the lab opposite Patrick's office served as a dormitory for the five other young adults under Patrick's psychological care. The door was open and Elizabeth could see that the space was unusually devoid of life.

Patrick followed her gaze. "They're at dinner." Elizabeth glanced up at the clock, startled to see that it was nearly six in the evening. _That explains the migraine,_ she grumbled to herself. "Finish up and I'll have one of the orderlies bring you food."

Elizabeth nodded with relief. If the others were at dinner, it meant the younger occupants of the Institute would soon be heading down for their own meal, leaving her with blissful peace and quiet to finish the task at hand.

Later that night, after finishing the day's work and eating the evening provision of the _chef surprise_, a sordid concoction of wheat grass and tomato juice, Elizabeth was permitted to return to her space. As one of the oldest residents at the Institute, she was afforded special privileges such as going between her room and the lab without being escorted. Unlike the others her age who were forced to spend their nights amongst communal snores, chatter, and nightmares, Elizabeth had been assigned her own isolated room on one of the subterraneous levels. After a year of shared living, Patrick had explained that uninterrupted sleep would help her performance on more complicated simulations. Elizabeth was never quite sure if the solitary quarters were a more of a punishment or a reward.

The motion sensors leading from the hallway into Elizabeth's room flickered the fluorescent lights in the ceiling to life. She kicked off her canvas slip-on shoes and flopped unceremoniously on the twin bed, resting her hands behind her head. The previously impending migraine had been narrowly averted, but the day had been long and tiring. A complicated simulation revising transportation security measures to prevent urban terrorism had cropped up in the middle of a longitudinal study on stress-induced psychosomatic disorders, in addition to her load of coursework in metaphysics and epistemology, advanced statistical modelling, and Pashto. She rubbed her gritty eyes and determinedly sat up to reach for the pajamas that had been returned from the laundry earlier in the day.

The small metal cabinet that held her clothes was one of the few pieces of furniture in Elizabeth's space. The twin bed was pushed against one grey cement wall, a rough grey woollen blanket hiding crisp white sheets created an aura of seamless monochromatism. A small nightstand next to the bed held a single lamp and a plastic pitcher and cup for water. Elizabeth's desk was directly adjacent from her bed; though usually tidy, the abruptness with which the client needed her simulation that morning resulted in a scattering of papers and textbooks across its surface.

In the corner next to the desk was a small shelving unit. A molecular model of methane hydrate clathrate from a previous environmental biochemistry project sat dejectedly on the topmost shelf, keeping company with several binders of resource material from past simulations. The lower three shelves contained a plethora of books, the only source of joy in the room. A few on the social and emotional development of gifted learners were borrowed from Patrick, most others were textbooks ranging from tropical medicine and human physiology to torts and civil procedure, all research material from coursework or special projects she'd completed. On the bottom amongst the texts' leather-bound spines were several composition books Elizabeth used as journals. Patrick had provided them with the suggestion that writing had great therapeutic benefits, but Elizabeth had a hunch it was a loaded comment, only for diaries to be read when she was not present. To counter any prying eyes, she spent several sleepless nights devising her own shorthand, but much to her chagrin, no one ever mentioned the inability to read the journals' contents.

Elizabeth changed into her nightclothes and conducted her evening ablutions in the small adjoining washroom. She stared at the familiar reflection in the mirror. Pale skin, chocolate brown eyes, dark hair. Dark circles were starting to creep their way under her eyes, the product of too many sleepless nights and almost no sunlight. She hadn't been allowed outside the Institute in almost seven years.

_Seven years, _Elizabeth realized with a start, nearly dropping her toothbrush. _Three hours from now it will make seven years. Three hours from now, I will be seventeen._

Most people loved their birthdays, but Elizabeth despised, abhorred, _loathed_ hers. May 22 was not representative of celebrations, cake, and presents. No, it was when men in raid jackets came during the night, swooping in on the house where she'd lived with her mother, father, and Shih Tzu Max. Balloons from the family party earlier in the afternoon still bounced along the ceiling and the floor of the living room was still littered with the torn-off wrapping paper from her presents.

Elizabeth remembered laying awake in bed that night, frozen with fear after hearing the deadbolt snap on the front door. Seconds later a gloved hand was over her mouth, preventing any screams of protest. She was lifted out of bed and carried down the stairs to a waiting black car, trying desperately to kick and claw her assailant to no avail. A cloth smelling of something all too sweet was pushed on her nose and mouth, and her thoughts became fuzzy. She tried to fight it, to stay conscious, but the chloroform was too overpowering.

It was the last time she saw her home and her family.

Elizabeth set her toothbrush on the counter and padded back into the room, feeling despondent at the memory she had dredged up. During the first week at the Institute, she'd made herself a solemn vow to suppress that horrible night, to lock it away in a tiny corner of her mind, never to be relived.

She collapsed back onto her bed, wishing she could cry. But that was another promise she had made herself. Crying showed weakness, and she was _not_ weak. The energy that could have been used to scream and tantrum was instead put to better uses. Her first act of rebellion was a three-day hunger strike that landed her in the infirmary after she had fainted from dehydration. The next day, after her scheme was foiled via intravenous nutrients, she undertook a vow of silence that stretched on for nearly three weeks. It was one of her proudest accomplishments. But neither act really dealt with her underlying emotions, as Patrick said during one of their one-on-one counseling sessions.

Her avoidance defense mechanism worked fine, most of the time. But the occasional seed of despair reared it's ugly head, creating a cognitive dissonance where she cursed her stubbornness, wishing she could let loose the knot of tension that had built up over the years.

Elizabeth turned over and buried her face in the pillow, futilely waiting for the blissful oblivion of sleep.

* * *

Elizabeth was not the only one still awake at the Institute, despite the late hour. On the third floor, well after the attending night staff and orderlies had ensured that all occupants were accounted for and well on their way to dreamland, Patrick reviewed the final results of the day's simulation and transmitted the file, along with his own notes, to the parent organisation overseeing the Institute, an outfit out of Blue Cove, Delaware called the Centre. With a glance at his watch, Patrick stood up to take a quick break before continuing on the work still left to be done. He turned to the open door leading from his office to the hallway, and noticed another light on several doors down. With a smile, he decided the remaining tasks could wait a _few_ extra minutes.

Patrick walked across the hall and tapped on the doorframe where his closest colleague, and the Assistant Director of the Department, Michelle Stamatis, was every bit as awake and at work as he was.

"It's 9pm. _On a_ _Saturday._" Patrick said with a grin. "Shouldn't you be at home?"

Despite being intently focused, Michelle somehow didn't jump at the unannounced presence. She pulled the pencil from between her teeth, but continued typing at her computer. "Shouldn't you?" She retorted.

"I just submitted today's simulation and I'm trying to get everything settled for visitor's day tomorrow." Patrick moved to sit in the unoccupied visitor's chair next to Michelle's desk. "What's your excuse?"

"Incident report. Tommy the terror tried to stick a paperclip in an electric socket during Group today. Marissa wants him put in solitary, but he has to learn to socialize before we can release him." Michelle sat back in her chair and faced her guest. "Sometimes I wonder why we ever decided to go into this field."

"We went into this field," the Director said, reaching into Michelle's communal box of individual-serving coffee pods, "Because we wanted to help people."

Michelle bit back a laugh. "If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I'd be rich enough to retire. Speaking of helping people, where's your child prodigy?"

"I sent her to bed," said Patrick, putting the pod into the Keurig. "She doesn't know it yet, but Mr. Raines and Mr. Parker from the Centre are supposed to observe tomorrow afternoon."

Any ounce of pleasantness in Michelle's features immediately evaporated. "When they arrive, remind me to somewhere else. I've told you before, they are _bad news._"

Patrick shrugged, as a quiet beep from the machine signalled that his coffee had finished brewing. "My hands are tied, Mich. I've heard what happens when you cross them, and quite honestly, I value my life." He wistfully looked back across the hall to the darkened lab. "And I value Elizabeth's."

* * *

**A/N:** Because I just know this is going to come up, no, Patrick is not homage to Sydney in any way... the character is based upon my best friend's clinical psychology doctoral adviser and they are _verrrry _different people. :) Up next: Visitor's Day gone awry, a Departmental staff meeting, and appearances by some of our favourite baddies.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two.**

* * *

By the time Elizabeth finally nodded off, it was after midnight. _Happy birthday to me,_ she mumbled to herself, feeling her eyelids droop. But sleep was not the blissful oblivious she'd hoped for. Her dreams were plagued with faceless figures calling out her name, reaching out, grabbing her. She was running from eerie shadows, cornered in the abyss between reality and nightmare, likely induced by the suppressed memories that had resurfaced.

The young genius woke with a start, breathing heavily, her face prickled with cold sweat. Recognizing the surroundings as her room from the Institute, she relaxed slightly, trying to get her racing pulse down to a normal rhythm. The digital clock embedded in the control panel by the door blinked 5:27 AM, one and a half hours before lockdown was lifted. Elizabeth tilted her head at the camera mounted from the ceiling, wondering if the security staff watching on the monitors upstairs would come check on her. She doubted it; even with the worst of her nightmares, they never sent the on-call psychiatrist down.

Elizabeth slipped out of bed, shivering as her bare feet touched the cold concrete floor. She knew that there was no way she could go back to sleep, so she padded across the room and plucked a textbook off the shelf. She tossed it on her bed with a muffled _thump_ and flicked on the small reading lamp. Smoothing out the rumpled covers, she lay with her back on the mattress, feet resting on the wall above the bed, and propped the book up on her stomach. _Organisational Behaviour, 8__th__ Edition._ Ten pages in, her restlessness returned. Tossing the book aside, she glanced at the clock again. 5:42 AM.

"Ugh!" Elizabeth exclaimed to no one in particular. "This is ridiculous." The young genius glanced around the sparse room, wishing for once that she was upstairs in the dormitory with the others. At least with them, she surmised, insomnia wouldn't be as lonely.

With a quiet _hmph,_ she scanned the room, desperate for some sort of entertainment. Her gaze rested on a mesh panel situated directly over her desk. _No, bad idea,_ her conscience warned. But Elizabeth's less prudent side had the upper hand. She thoughtfully chewed at her thumbnail, wondering just _how _much trouble she would get in if she actually went through with the plan hatching in her mind. With a shrug- _no entertainment is worse than bad entertainment-_ she waited until the camera panned away from the bed, then stuffed her pillow under the covers to create the appearance that she'd returned to sleep. Slithering against the wall to avoid the camera's omniscient lens, Elizabeth quietly climbed on top of her desk and lifted the hinged opening to the air vent. She hoisted herself into the hatch and replaced the cover, pausing for a few seconds to see if an alarm had been triggered.

_Nothing._

With a tiny giggle of success, Elizabeth crawled down the hatchway, staying alert for any signs of discovery. She reached a juncture in the piping and turned left. Peering through the grating overlooking the room directly next to her own, Elizabeth frowned. The bed had fresh linens, several sets of clothing were laid out on the shelving unit, and a single large manual was placed in the centre of the otherwise empty desk.

For as long as she'd been on the sub-level of the Institute, she was the sole resident. A glimmer of hope rose in her chest- maybe she was getting a new neighbour! The excitement was short-lived by the soft _ping _of the elevator at the end of the corridor. She booked it back through the vent and slid the panel closed. She took a dive to the ground below the horizontal window slit embedded in the door that served as the one blind spot for any passing security detail. She held her breath as footsteps echoed against the cement floor and paused briefly on the other side of her door.

The walkie-talkie on the guard's belt crackled to life. "Subject 52287 is present and accounted for," he announced. Once the security station affirmed the guard's report, the footsteps retreated back toward the elevator. Elizabeth tiptoed back to the bed, her foot making contact with its leg as she stumbled in the dark. _Crap,_ she mentally swore, bone striking metal with a loud clang. The footsteps of the guard ran back from the elevator, punched in the code to unlock the door, and burst in, taser at the ready. He lowered it slowly as the fluorescent lights came on with a flicker, revealing nothing more than a slightly bedraggled Subject 52287 sitting on the edge of the equally disheveled cot.

"Sorry, I heard your radio and stubbed my toe when I was getting some water," she quickly lied, holding up the pitcher with what she hoped was an innocent smile.

The security guard suspiciously glanced around the room. Elizabeth followed his eyes sweeping across the small room, noting with alarm that her desk chair was askew from being used as a step up to the air vent.

_Please don't notice, please don't notice,_ she mentally willed him.

His gaze travelled across the wall and returned back to her, but she didn't dare show any sign of relief. "You should be asleep," he mandated.

Elizabeth responded with a shrug. "I will. Thanks for checking in on me."

With a glare of utmost authority, the security guard reached for his walkie-talkie and closed the door behind him as he returned to the elevator and back up to the security station.

_That was too close_. Elizabeth flopped onto her back, adrenaline rushing through her system. _Way too close._

* * *

Two hours later in the executive suite of the Institute, four of the five doctors on staff sat around the large conference table, waiting for the special session of their weekly planning meeting to begin. Twice a year, the Institute held a visitor's day where parents or guardians could observe their children's behaviour modification and see just what their astronomically high checks were paying for. Most of the residents of the Institute were sent by their families who paid top dollar for behavioural rehabilitation that was assured to produce "mentally sound, well-behaved young adults," as the publicity brochure spelled out. Others, however, were there by court or state order. For some of the more serious cases, the Institute was a sentencing alternative to juvenile detention, usually for offenses like truancy or possession of controlled substances.

Even more rare were the kids under guardianship of the state, admitted to the Institute only because there was no other place for them to go. It was less than likely that the children from the latter two classifications would be visited, which resulted in the necessity of a modified schedule for the day, and absolute chaos for the staff.

"I'm going to guess that we're going to have no less than three incidents today," Jennifer Charbonnet, clinical psychologist, lucky enough to oversee the group containing the majority of juvenile delinquents, said over her cup of steaming earl grey.

"I'm going to go with five," said Marissa Elliott, child psychiatrist, tasked with the youngest residents of the Institute. "Tommy the Terror was out of control yesterday, and I have no doubt his attitude will be contagious."

"Five sounds about right," agreed Michelle Stamatis, passing a cup of coffee to her younger colleague before sitting across from her. The Assistant Director turned to the psychiatrist sitting next to her, meticulously going through his pile of files. "Et tu, Doctor?"

"As the eternal pessimist of the group," said Julian Burai, the fourth voice in the assembled company, "My expert opinion is eight."

"I'll take side bets that it's my group cited for the majority of incidents," said Jen Charbonnet, pulling off her Warby Parker glasses and rubbing her fatigued eyes. Six thirty in the morning was not a favourable time for a staff meeting.

"There'd better _not_ be any incidents today," said a cultured voice from the doorway. Patrick gave his colleagues a tired smile as he came into the room. He tossed his own files on the table, sinking into the plush leather seat at its head. "But that, I know, is wishful thinking." He passed around several folders. "Let's get started, shall we? Today's program starts at nine, after the continental breakfast. With any luck, we will have everyone out of here by twelve thirty."

"And the clinical interns will be leading the program?" Marissa asked.

"Yes, the entire cohort of Ph.D. students was called in for today," Patrick answered, referring to the schedule in the folder. "All… except for Claudette and Amanda," he said, referencing his own doctoral interns. "They have a different assignment."

"Oh?" Jen shot him a quizzical look.

"I just got off the phone with Blue Cove. We will be playing host to a contingent from the Centre this afternoon." Patrick's normally calm air was slightly ruffled as he straightened the files in front of him.

"What do they want?" Marissa asked with evident disdain.

Patrick cleared his throat and tugged at his tie, worn just for the occasion. "They are coming to evaluate Elizabeth's progress."

Julian leaned forward and steepled his fingers. "Which, let me guess, affects the future of our funding, and any of our current grant requests to Blue Cove for our own research projects?"

Patrick affixed a steely look at his colleague. "Possibly. Which is why this visit needs to go off without a hitch. Michelle will be Acting Director today so I can court the Tower. If there are no objections, let's make this short so we can get to rounds this morning. There's still a lot to do."

"No objections here," said Jen. "Here's my quick update for you all. I've got 3 of my kids on their second warning, and Coulter was caught trying to make a shiv out of a pen cap, toothbrush, and staples. Needless to say, he's in isolation for the next three days." She looked to her left to pass on the proverbial baton.

Marissa passed Patrick her status report from the previous week. "We got a new patient on Friday, a six year old girl named Molly. She's here on the recommendation of her teachers, who think she is autistic, and the school district doesn't have the resources to give her an Individual Education Plan. Parents are virtually non-existent and she was raised by an aunt who is convinced she is possessed by the Devil. Non-communicative thus far, but she's scheduled for testing tomorrow. From what my interns have said, she reads at a very sophisticated level. I'm guessing her full scale IQ will be within the gifted range, maybe even above that."

Patrick nodded, glancing over the intake report with some relief. It could easily serve as a bone to throw at the Centre to keep them from breathing down his neck. "Excellent. Blue Cove will like this very much. Keep me posted with her status. I want her test scores ASAP."

Marissa jotted the note down on her legal pad. "Will do, Boss."

"Julian?" Patrick turned to the far end of the table with a raised brow.

The proud graduate of both institutions in the Oxbridge system cleared his throat and leaned back in his leather chair. In his late twenties, he was highly ambitious, a trait he made no effort to mask. The Directorship of the Institute was a coveted position he wanted to get his greedy hands on, and he didn't care whom he stepped on in the process. "My patients are progressing quite smoothly. All have been attentive and participatory during Group, and I believe we are making progress with each one during their individual treatment. I hope to remove three of them from all meds within the next two weeks," he added smoothly.

Patrick was not the head of the psychogenic research department for nothing. He saw straight through Julian's act. "Excellent. Since things seem to be going well, you won't mind getting a new patient added to your caseload." It was a statement, not a question. "We received a call from the Madison County Courthouse that an Abigail Blankenship is scheduled to go through intake tomorrow."

The anticipated objection was put forth immediately. "Doctor Charbonnet is the juvenile justice rehabilitation specialist here, I don't see why-"

The attitude from his colleague was just about enough to send Patrick over the edge. It was time to remind Doctor Burai exactly who was in charge. "In case you didn't hear Doctor Charbonnet's report, she has her hands full. We have already assigned her four interns and twice the number of orderlies and nursing staff as anyone else. We work as a team in this department, and since your load appears to be manageable, the new case is being assigned to you. She arrives at eight in the morning."

Julian's mouth thinned at the mandate. "Very well."

"Good." Patrick looked at his watch. "Michelle, anything to add?"

"Nothing that wasn't in my weekly. I'm still taking your group for the afternoon so you can give Raines and Parker the dog and pony show?" Beneath her calm exterior, Patrick could see masked concern in her face.

"Yes. Excellent. Anyone else have anything for the good of the group?"

Grateful that all responses were in the negative, Patrick dismissed the meeting.

Handing off the master list of visitor's day preparations to Michelle, Patrick stood before the elevator bank, trying to collect his thoughts on how he was going to break the news of an audience to his young protégé.

Jennifer Charbonnet came up beside him en route to her own office and adjusted the armful of files she was carrying.

Patrick reached out to grab a batch that slid out from the pile. "Let me give you a hand."

"Thanks. How is our young prodigy?" She asked as they pushed the buttons for their respective floors.

"She's been progressing very well," Patrick replied. "Today is her seventeenth birthday. It's hard to believe she only has a year left with us."

Jen nodded. She knew the terms of the project. Upon reaching the age of majority, Elizabeth would be transferred to the Centre, possibly even taken to Triumvirate Station in Africa, if the _Powers That Be_ determined it the best course of action.

As a scientist, Patrick outwardly tried to remain impartial, but he- and everyone at the Institute- knew that there was an undeniable level of affection for the girl. Not only was she was the closest thing he had to a daughter, but she was the centre of his academic and professional career. Her genius was the subject of numerous scholarly articles and lectures, making him one of the world's foremost experts on the psyche of the highly gifted.

When the project was first announced, back during the time Patrick was finishing the last year of his residency in the Psychogenic Research Department at the Centre, he submitted his name for Project Coordinator on a whim, never fully believing the Tower would give such a young psychiatrist the opportunity of a lifetime. But someone had faith in him, and with the assignment of Elizabeth came the promotion to Assistant Director of the Institute. Michelle Stamatis had been Director at the time, but stepped down three years into Patrick's tenure as AD to spend more time with her husband and son. Patrick was promoted to the Directorship, a further unprecedented move, especially at a mere thirty-two years old.

"I've got the on-call cell phone, so let me know if you need anything before I come down at nine o'clock," said Patrick as Jen reached her office.

"Will do. Good luck."

_I'm going to need it,_ was the unvoiced reply echoing in his mind as he continued up to the third floor. _Definitely going to need it._

* * *

**A/N: **I hope everyone has thoroughly enjoyed _Rebirth_ so far... there will be some tie-in to the novel as things progress in _Yunasa_. And fear not, MP and J will play large roles in the future. I had to split my planned update into two since there was too much ground to cover. Sorry about that! Next up: chaos in the Institute, a Sim gone awry, and finally an appearance by some familiar faces!


End file.
